


a fresh poison each week

by devil divine (jaegerjagues)



Category: From Dusk Till Dawn: The Series
Genre: Gen, drabble ish, mentions of drug abuse, quick fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 05:51:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4336328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaegerjagues/pseuds/devil%20divine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seth has visions, but they're nothing like Richie's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a fresh poison each week

**Author's Note:**

> this wouldn't get its claws outta me, so TAKE IT.

Seth has visions, but they’re nothing like Richie’s. 

They’re of a pair of feet, bare and up on the dashboard, arms reaching skyward out of the corvette, face tilted toward the heat of the setting sun as her hair whips around her head, wild and free. 

It’s daring to cross the border into the states, just for a night. It’s a drive-through elopement in Las Vegas, cheap rings and a bottle of whiskey in the center console, rim sticky with her lip-gloss. 

It's Kate, laughing, horrible sunburn peeling on her shoulders with her feet dug into the white sands of some beach in Mexico, a beer in her hand and a ridiculously large pair of sunglasses on her face. 

It’s a bed and a home and a dog, not looking for law enforcement every other second. It’s not having to ditch the different cars he boosts, Kate in the passenger seat with a decreasing look of uncomfort on her face every time he does it. 

The reality is this:

Kate drives the getaway car, white knuckles and light feet as she shifts gears and gets them the fuck out of there. Her skin is pale from the time she refuses to spend in the sun, and there's a scar running up the pale underside of her arm, thick and pink. 

There's blood on her face, most nights, and it's like the culebras are everywhere--mentally and physically. That night in the Titty Twister has it’s fangs into both of them and refuses to let go. It’s like the culebra’s can smell them, now, know that they survived Santanico Pandemonium and think to themselves, _I want a piece of that._

A gun in Kate’s hand starts to look more natural than a bible, and there’s a hardness creeping into her brown eyes with every pull of the trigger. He isn’t even sure where the cross that hung around her neck is, now--when she took it off or where she put it. 

He isn’t sure when she stopped asking, “Are we ever going to stop running?” and when she started saying, “Put the money in the bag and he won’t shoot you.”

The car is filled with the silence of the radio static and Kate, mumbling hymns under her breath if it’s been a hard night. Her head is normally leaning against the car window, eyes half lidded and the gun still in her lap. 

Reality is chapped lips, and names coming out of her mouth in the pre-dawn light, Jacob's and Seth's and Richie's and Santanico's and his. Those names are what marks the shift between her dreams and her nightmares, the last good things that come out of her mouth in the morning before the screaming starts. 

She wakes up to find him in her bed those mornings, his arms around her and a fine sheen of sweat coating her skin from the memories she relived in those scant few hours of sleep. 

Nothing is ever said about that, about the way she disentangles herself from him with the practice of not waking him up, the way she leaves the room to go and scrounge up breakfast wherever she can find it.

Reality is a bottle of pills within arms reach of him, everything and anything to numb the pain. He stopped with the heroin the first time Kate caught him at it, eye’s wide and glazed over as she stepped back out of the room quietly and wouldn’t look at him for a week. 

Reality is Kate, doing her damnedest to keep herself and both of them together, and it’s him trying to make it a little easier on her.

It’s them against the world.

So, Seth has visions.

But they’re nothing like Richie’s.


End file.
